Saturday, 31 December 2016

On
the captured longship, Einar Sigurdsson explained the options to the rest of
the company.

“We will soon reach the mainland, but it will
be evening, when it is bad luck to sail on.”

“Superstitions!” Jonlar Zilv scoffed, but
decided not to press the matter with the only expert sailor on board. Shortly
after the densely wooded coast appeared, Einar and two men lowered the skiff
and rowed Princess Geranith and two of her followers to leave them to their fate
with a day’s worth of food, a weapon each, and the clothes on their back. Some,
particularly Sufulgor del’Akkad, grumbled, but Einar held up his hand.

“I gave a promise, and what goes around may
yet come around.”

“She has bewitched him” Harmand the Reckless
suggested, but without much conviction.

On the sea

The
next day, they decided to sail to the southwest, where they had heard of a
small sea fortress on an island – a good, out of the way place to sell their
spoils and resupply. Much of the day was spent slowly navigating the
treacherous straits between the local islets, and it was already evening when
the longship laid anchor to the south of a large, mountainous island covered
with trees. Einar (whose player was absent this session) and the men remained
on the ship, while, on a sudden whim, Gadur
Yir, Jonlar Zilv, Harmand the Reckless and Sufulgor del’Akkad decided to go ashore
and explore the place.

They
rowed the skiff close to the shore, then up a stream choked with large, leafy
plants. They were enveloped by the darkness and sounds of the surrounding
forests, and heard the howl of wolves from the distance, up in the mountains.
Quietly, they rowed on, their progress illuminated by the light of the full
moon, until they reached a series of cascades below a small lake. Abandoning
the skiff, they investigated the reflecting pool, whose surface was disturbed
by the odd ripples of large fish. There was an old pier on the shore, and a
trail lead into the darkness of the woods. High above, beyond the tree line, a
lonely source of warm light beckoned. After a short discussion, and estimating
the climb would take three or four hours, they decided this was worth exploring
more carefully. Carefully avoiding the pier, Sufulgor made for the trail, with
the others a stone’s throw behind him.

The
trail climbed up through the undergrowth, with scarcely any light to guide
them. The wolves were closer now, their sounds echoing through the mountains.
There were frequent footsteps in the mud; of canines and a few of a man (or
men). The company emerged in a mountain meadow, bisected by a rushing stream.
The trail split; one side disappearing in the treacherous crevices cut by the
waters, the other crossing a rickety wooden bridge above the stream, then
meandering up the mountainside until reaching the forests again. This trail was
marked by several short stones, carved with the runes of the Northman alphabet,
white in the moonlight.

Following
the path to the right, they passed the runestones, and were back in the forest.
The trail split again; a less travelled section descending towards what seemed
to be a steep precipice, and the main route climbing towards where the light
had been. In this direction, the forest was ancient and choked with fallen tree
giants and enormous trunks. The howling of the wolves now came from all around,
and in an instant, the group was surrounded. The pack of snarling wolves,
perhaps half a dozen, parted and a man stepped forward. He had wild eyes and an
unkempt beard, dressed in dishevelled rags. He addressed them in a guttural
speech:

“I am Gwydion,
son of Gwydion, and it must have been pre-ordained that you should come
this night for the feasting.”

Jonlar
Zilv tried to appeal to reason: “Indeed,
and a good feast is sweetened by a song! Let me show you how well my musical
troupe can serve you.”

“We shall see yet how you sing, that is
right!” snapped the man, and the circle of wolves closed in for the attack.

With
a terrible roar, Gwydion, son of Gwydion jumped, transforming into a hairy
lupine monstrosity, and felling Jonlar Zilv with his claws (1 Hp left).

“We will snack on wolves-meat tonight”,
laughed Harmand the Reckless, joined by the other half-orc. “The livers are mine! Finally a worthy
delicacy!”

“The blood must flow generously” concurred
Gwydion.

The
wolves attacked with bloodlust in their eyes, trying to drag their victims down
with their weight.

“Perish!” shrieked Sufulgor, and Gwydion
fell like a tree, his body taut with rigor mortis. Gadur Yir rushed him,
speeding past the wolves, but his mighty blow only made a scratch on Gwydion’s hide.
Desperate for his life, Jonlar Zilv produced the only silver items in his
possession: he pushed two silver coins into the eye sockets of his enemy, who
shrieked in terrible pain as the silver burned out his eyes. The wolves whimpered
and fled, rushing past the company to run for the mountains, towards the
elusive light beyond the tree line.

They
butchered the captive werewolf in panic, cutting the living body into pieces as
they could, and built a pyre to burn the remains, Sufulgor chanting a
sacrificial ritual as he dedicated the corpse to Kurlakum of the Seven
Misfortunes. Everyone was exhausted and Jonlar Zilv was close to death –
although, fortunately, he suffered no werewolf bite. The body of Gwyddion
revealed a few personal belongings: three fist-sized pieces of amber with
preserved insects, five small bundles of twigs Jonlar Zilv identified as a
druidic artefact customarily buried along with the defeated, and an old
knotwork talisman made of bronze.

“I am familiar with the legends”, mused
Jonlar. “The druids of Erillion are a
strange and unfriendly lot, who had ruled this land before the arrival of civilisation,
and who were driven out and massacred in the days of the Wraith Queen Arxenia.”

“We should check out the source of the light
tomorrow morning. Perhaps we can catch whoever is there while they are asleep.”

The
next morning, everything was shrouded in fog. They followed the path through
the forest, then on a barren mountainside strewn with enormous boulders. The
way lead to a large log house and kennel, built of sturdy timbers and covered
with a roof fashioned out of crude pieces of mossy slate. The remaining wolves
were resting next to the entrance, and growled as the company approached.

“Let me try something.” Jonlar Zilv
produced the knotwork amulet, and held it up in the faint hope it would let him
control the wolves, but the beasts only became more agitated, and started to
howl and bay. Someone cursed inside the log house, and the door opened to
reveal an old man, ragged of clothing and white of hair, flanked two snarling young
warriors.

“The slayers of my son approach! My name is Gwydion, and I bid you welcome.”

“Indeed, of your son… and you!”

The
wolves sprang forward and Sufulgor and Jonlar Zilv climbed up on a large
boulder in panic. Gadur Yir broke through the wolves to smite the old man, but
missed. Gwydion spoke the words of a spell at Gadur Yir, but also failed to
affect him. A furious mêlée developed, and while Gwydion’s two sons were caught
by Sufulgor’s hold person spell, he
was only affected by a temporary command to
drop to the ground. The wolves cornered Harmand the Reckless, who was fighting
for his life by the boulder, and he saw that Sufulgor was badly mauled (2 Hp),
and the beasts dragged Jonlar Zilv off of the rock to finish him off (-1 Hp) –
the efficiency of Gamescience™ dice! Barely into the battle, things were
becoming desperate.

With
a cry, Harmand leapt among the wolves to protect Jonlar, as Gadur Yir, who
could barely keep away his share of wolves, shoved a handful of silvers down
the helpless Gwydion’s mouth, burning his throat, and gouging out his eyes with
two more coins. With his mighty arms, he held up the mangled and disfigured body
of the elder werewolf before the eyes of his paralysed sons and the
bloodthirsty wolves.

“This was your master!”

Alas,
the wolves only became more furious, redoubling their efforts to rip the
company apart. Now Harmand was also near death, and Sufulgor could barely
escape the wolves trying to pull him down from his boulder perch. He winced,
and produced his dagger.

“Hear me! As I cut off my own nose,” he
shrieked with a bloodcurdling cry, “I
offer you my wretched hideousness! I promise that by the time the moon is
consumed, I will disgrace a princeling, or so I will be disgraced by that which
you send to me!” He held up his severed nose, blood flowing from his
disfigured visage.

There
was a portentous moment of silence as things hung in the balance, then the
wolves turned, looked at Sufulgor, and abandoning their previous quarry, rushed
him on top of the rock en masse and
tore Sufulgor into bloody pieces. Sufulgor’s player wasn’t using Gamescience™
dice.

In
the flash of moment while the wolves had their attention on Sufulgor, the two
half-orcs made their decision. Harmand the Reckless cast his sanctuary spell, grabbed Jonlar Zilv’s
body, and ran as he could, finding refuge among the mountain peaks where the
winds wouldn’t carry his smell.

Gadur
Yir, still menaced by three wolves, used the moaning and shrieking Gwydion’s
wrecked body as a personal shield, retreating into the log house and
barricading the door behind him just as Gwydion’s younger sons were starting to
move again. He finished off the old man as fast as he could, and desperately
looked around for a way out. He was trapped. The house interior, decorated with
rough furs and hunting trophies, was spare, and there were no other exits, with
only tiny windows neither he nor the wolves could squeeze through.

“Now what?They will eventually batter down the door and I will be caught like the
proverbial piglet…”

As he
thought, he grinned. He gathered firewood under the large stew-filled cauldron
on the fireplace, and lit up a nice fire. Why not serve the wolves some hot
soup? He whistled as the two young men outside were cursing and demanding him
to open the door and release their father, and searched the premises. His
efforts were rewarded with a sack full of gold coins, along with four more twig
bundles, a sickle with a blade hammered out of pure gold, a bunch of mistletoe,
and a small but heavy idol in the crude form of a wolf.

The
soup now hot, Gadur Yir decided to make his exit, but as he removed the piping
hot cauldron from the fire, he found something even more promising: checking
the chimney, he realised he could climb out, perhaps without being spotted. He
doused the fire, clambered up the chimney, and pulled up Gwydion’s body with a
looped rope. Propping the corpse against the chimney, he barely slipped away as
the old man’s sons and the wolves still circled around the house, waiting for
someone to come out. Up in the mountains, the half-orc faced an unpleasant
decision. Descending through the mountains would be hard enough in the mist,
but carrying both the gold and the heavy statuette would be even more
hazardous. Ruefully, he stuffed his pockets with gold, and emptied the rest
among the rocks. Stumbling and cursing, he descended through ravines and
slopes, getting caught in the undergrowth and barely avoiding falling into one
of the deep crevices dotting the mountainside. At last, he emerged at the lake,
and slightly later, met Jonlar Zilv and Harmand the Reckless on the way down
the stream.

***

The
longship set sail again, navigating the rocky waters of the archipelago. The
island of the wolves receded, although Barzig
the Nomad spotted something that looked like ruined white walls in the
forests. Could it be Lord Feranolt’s abandoned family nest? They were not sure,
and didn’t risk venturing closer. Instead, they sailed southwest two days,
circumnavigating a small isle under high wind and constant rain to sail into
the harbour of Knifetooth, a small
sea outpost and townlet under the protection of Skarlog thane. The harbour was
already occupied by two more ships: one, a slightly larger longship than
theirs; and the other, the Pearl Shine,
a mighty sailing vessel with high decks and sailors clad in silk vests and
baggy pants, obviously meaning business. As they learned, they were the men of Saydir the Kassadian, a local warlord
with an interest in military expeditions – a polite term for pirate.

After
being warned by the guards to respect the authority of Lord Isellon, as well as his lieutenants, Ragak Longaxe and Captain
Fellagon, they were allowed to enter the small, one-street and one-plaza
settlement. The two half-orcs and Jonlar Zilv found a weaponsmith to their
liking. Gadur Yir bought himself a shiny new breastplate to match his green
cloak, and picked up a new bastard sword in place of the one he had lost when
the company was captured. Harmand the Reckless was disappointed to learn this
was the only piece of plate armour available, but eventually agreed with the
smith to order a full to his specifications.

Meanwhile,
Barzig the Nomad – now naming himself Barzig
the Back as he was taken over by Sufulgor’s player – sauntered up to the
trading depot of Murgen the Benevolent,
a tasteless little villa. He entered the downstairs shop where two Kassadians
were already haggling over some cloth bales they were trying to pass off to a
disinterested servant. Barzig, without a single coin in his pocket, called the
man.

“I wish to speak to your master. Is he
available? My name is Barzig the Healer, a famous expert of herbs and balms.”

The
servant bowed and rang a bell, and Barzig was at once conveyed to a spacious
living room where he was received by Murgen himself. After trading
pleasantries, Barzig outlined his plan: he would like to establish a trade
relationship with Murgen, where they would not only divide the immense profits
made by selling healing concoctions at several locations across Erillion,
Barzig would make sure to carry Murgen’s good reputation to everyone in the
known world.

“This is a fascinating proposition, and
interests me very much. In fact, as far as I am concerned, I like the deal”
Murgen smiled. “I even have a small, how
do you call it, apothecarium, a box full
of small drawers containing rare herbs and spices. It would be excellent for a
start. As my part of the venture, I will only ask 350 gold as collateral for
the box, as well as the use of my good name.”

“Unfortunately, I do not have that kind of
money on me right now. It would be much better if you would raise the necessary
capital.”

“I am sure getting that collateral will be a
snap.”

“I will have to discuss the matter with my
business partners.”

“Very well! Until then, I wish you good luck.
Jacopo, could you please escort the gentleman to the exit?”

Barzig
was unceremoniously deposited in Knifetooth’s sole street, and he made a sour
face as he weighed his opportunities in the rain.

“Have good cheer and do not worry!” came
the advice of a jovial-looking fat man managing a roasted dog stand. “Have a snack and you will feel better – only
two coppers!”

Barzig
growled. “I do not even have that much.”

“Well, my friend, then you have been well and
truly fucked by the gods” came the response.

As
Barzig left Murgen’s upstairs room, his place was taken by other guests –
Jonlar Zilv and the two half-orcs, who had come to sell precious treasures at
the store, and were immediately admitted.

“…and make sure to check the locks. I did not
like the looks of that scoundrel” they heard Murgen’s instructions to
Jacopo, before the merchant turned to introduce himself. When they produced the
wares – Geranith’s marriage gifts and the objects captured on the island – he became
even more jovial, inviting the company to a bottle of fine Kassadian wine.

“You know, it is a rare treat up north. This
can be a boring little place, but it has its pleasures. I gift you this bottle
as a memory of our deal – the first of many, I expect.”

“While we are at it, we might want to offer another”,
Jonlar smiled. “Do you deal in livestock
of the two-legged variety?”

Murgen’s
eyes narrowed to slits.

“I am not that kind of man” he paused, surveying the guests. “…but I guess Skarlog thane is none too picky.
Understand me, I am not a slaver, and will merely act as an, ah,
intermediary in this affair – spare you
the transportation costs and the time you’d lose while doing business, et
cetera et cetera.”

“We understand each other perfectly. Our
wares are a little unruly, but we got them in a battle fair and square, according
to tried Northman custom. I am sure Skarlog thane will be understanding.”

“That I am sure of. Jacopo, do run and ask
Captain Fellagon if he could offer some, ah, temporary storage for me.”

Richer
by 300 gp and lessened by the burden of the captive Northmen, the company put
their minds to future plans. It was time to purchase food and supplies for the
ship – this alone would come at a cost of 15 gp per diem for a crew of 40. Then
came the question of wages. Most of the men would work for food and keep and the
occasional bonus, but they needed to outfit the ten readiest as armed fighters,
which would soon require a commission, an extra 30 gp per week. Another ten men
looked ready to prove their worth, but could not be outfitted yet. This whole
ship business looked like an expensive venture. At last, they agreed on
advancing two weeks’ worth of costs, and spending the rest in Knifetooth. After
his miserable experience and insistent begging, they gifted Barzig with bow,
arrows and sword, seemingly making him even more sour and ungrateful.

“Don’t you want to give me ten more fucking
gold pieces?This is humiliation!”
he snarled.

As
the evening approached, Gadur Yir took a small excursion outside Knifetooth.
Among the bare hills whose trees were cut down long ago, he built a small stone
stand, and made an offering of 200 gp worth of incense and the golden sickle
from Gwydion’s treasures. As he stood below the grey skies, and the sacrifice
was gone in a flash of flames, he heard a distant voice, all around him yet silent,
only within him yet thunderous: “YOU
SHALL BE MY CHAMPION IF YOU TRIUMPH IN MY NAME.”

Pleased
that Haldor, the God of Heroism had
finally answered his prayers for the first time in his life, Gadur Yir grinned
and headed back to the small outpost.

In
the evening, there was light and celebration in the Coughing Cur, Knifetooth’s best (and only) tavern, and all of the
heavily painted whores did great business. Harmand the Reckless threw a lavish
party for 200 gp, inviting all the longship’s crew to tie them together as a
company. The tempers were high and some men picked a few fights with Saydir the
Kassadian’s men, but it turned out the latter were not only tougher fish, they
were extremely well disciplined: they didn’t fraternise, didn’t respond to provocation,
and their officers eventually ordered them all to return to the ship.

After
the party, it was time to think of new plans, but this was interrupted by an
unexpected farewell. Killorn Stonefist,
the sickly dwarf they had freed from slavery, was even less well than before,
and came to say his goodbye.

“I will find a vessel to return me to
Kassadia, where I will try seek the help of Irlan the Merciful to cure my
ailment. I have not had good luck on this island, but I pray to all the gods
that you might.”

They
gifted Killorn with 30 gp, and overtaken by gratitude, the old dwarf told them
why he had sought out Erillion in the first place.

“I came to this godforsaken place on a
mission to find a group of my fellow dwarves. All I learned was that they are
now captives in a tower named Tol Grannek.
This place lies to the west of Baklin, in the mountains of central Erillion,
and it is ruled by an army of orcs, shrewd and merciless. There they worship
their fell god, and work the mines with captured slaves. Surely, they keep some
great treasures in Tol Grannek… but if you could free the dwarves, my people
would be most grateful to you.”

The
name Tol Grannek had the ring of excitement around it.

“Perhaps we are not approaching this the
correct way. We act as weak individuals when we could be raising an army and earning
a name that would get us places” Harmand mused. “For a start, we could capture some of the orcs who harass the trade
route between Baklin and Tirwas.”

They
retreated for the night as they thought about the new vistas before them.

(Session
date 28 December 2016).

***

Notable quotes:

Jonlar
Zilv: “Could this be a druid who is only
disguising himself as a werewolf?”

“Murgen the Benevolent? I bet he is the
cousin of Murad the Honest.” [from the City State of Arfel in the City of
Vultures campaign, Episode 7 – G.L.]

“How could someone distrust a man named
Murgen the Benevolent?”

***

Referee’s notes: An almost-TPK on an
island that was effectively a detour from the main plotline. The company’s
escape from the wolves and the Gwydion clan may seem miraculous, and call into
question my old-school credentials. I accept the charges. Ten-years-younger me
would have salughtered the party without mercy, using the wolves as efficient,
brutal killing machines. But truthfully, I am no longer that merciless, and I
don’t run the opposition as hyper-efficient killing machines (just like my
group doesn’t play like a hyper-efficient commando unit). I am ready to offer
last chances if they are believable and spectacular – and some of the
desperate, last-ditch measures the party pulled were both. Yet there are always
consequences, and this time, Sufulgor was the one who was unlucky enough to be
left with the bill. Remember, always bring your own dice, and never settle for
anything less than Gamescience™!

Like
last time, this episode may appear to be an excursion with no bearing on the
greater campaign. In fact, just like last time, it introduces a few concepts
which may become rather relevant later on. The campaign takes shape, and a few
pieces of the puzzle are put in place; connections start to emerge. It is not
wasted time. Which part is the puzzle and which isn’t? And are the pieces in
the exact right place? Now those are different questions.

Sunday, 18 December 2016

At the end of Summer in the year 3995, Solon’s
calendar, the Highest Synod of the **Arx** issued the following brief
proclamation, numbered #3775 and disseminated through the usual venues:

***
*** ***In the name of the Principle!
The **Arx** hereby declares that Megakrates, Lord of Akrasia has transgressed
fundamental philosophical values in governing his city state, and, even after
repeated calls to amend his erroneous ways, he has failed to issue the
necessary corrections. Consequently, the Highest Synod of the **Arx**, acting
on a vote of eleven to ten, hereby sentences Megakrates and his unrepentant
band of conspirators to DEATH, and, furthermore, orders the immediate seizure
of all their movable and immovable possessions, including but not limited to
the city state of Akrasia. The judgement is final and subject to immediate
implementation. Swift and effective measures will be enacted by a special
delegation of the appropriate experts, appointed on authority of the **Arx** to
carry out the necessary operations in the city state of Akrasia. *** *** ***So declared in the city
state of Propyla, in the year of Solon 3995, day 237.”Slightly later, a mounted company on picked horses
left the city state of Propyla. Turning southwest from the major trade route,
they rode on a less travelled road towards Akrasia...

In
the Name of the Principle is a scenario for a party of 5th to 7th
level characters, focusing on espionage, subversion and open-ended problem-solving
in the city state of Akrasia. It was originally run as a tournament scenario on
an old-school mini-convention, offering a concentrated dose of the ideas in our
Fomalhaut campaign. The English version, translated in mid-2014, was intended
to be published in Fight On #15, but
since that never came to pass, it is offered here as a Christmas present.

Saturday, 10 December 2016

Some of the most fun I have had
this year has been digging into Takao Saito’s Golgo 13 comic series and its various offshoots – two live action
adaptations, two animated films and an animated TV series. It was brought to my
attention by pure chance; for various reasons, it doesn’t seem to enjoy
particularly wide recognition outside Japan, at least not for a broadly
circulated series that has been running continuously since 1968. Still, it stuck, and it has become one of my favourite non-gaming

Basically, Golgo 13 is a
particularly vicious James Bond ripoff, whose titular hero (usually going under
the alias “Duke Togo”), a stone cold assassin without an ounce of remorse,
kills and fucks his way through anything that gets thrown at him without
changing his expression. If he accepts a job, he always sees it through to the
end no matter what, and he always gets in the kill even if it is four degrees
of impossible. If people get in his way or try to double-cross him, they also
get killed. Graphic violence and explicit sex are both heavily featured. This
is the distilled essence of Connery-era Bond (whose appearance Duke shares), before
the sillier gadgetry, and without the comfortable moral justification of government
employment. Bond does it for Queen and Country; Duke does it for suitcases full
of money which he dutifully deposits in his anonymous Swiss bank account.

Golgo 13 comes from long before manga/anime
became an established style with fully codified visual conventions, so – apart from
its distinctly odd-looking women – the comics are more inspired by western
golden age comic books, with a distinct Dick Tracy / Batman influence. It is
not a particularly fancy or experimental look, but it does its job as a vehicle
for the stories it tells. The earlier issues are less detailed but more
dynamic; later, the backgrounds gradually become more elaborate while they turn
increasingly generic – 1990s Golgo 13 art has an impersonal quality that’s
almost curiously flat. (Apparently, these comics are drawn by an artistic team,
while the faces are always drawn by
Saito – which is hilarious because they are the simplest, yet most interesting
element.)

In the early strips, Duke allows
himself a characteristic smirk now and then; later, he has one facial
expression whether he is strolling through an airport (the series is full of a
disorienting variety of interchangeable, anonymous and lonely places like cheap
hotels, bars, modern office complexes and airports), negotiating a contract, or
having sex. He tends to communicate in two rows of ellipses, preferring to say nothing. Since Golgo 13 doesn't have much of a personality beyond the cool,
taciturn loner with superhuman accuracy, the interesting stuff in the comics comes
from either the people who act as his foils, or watching the really contrived
ways Golgo sets up his kills. As an incredibly long-running series, the
plotting has its ups and downs, but at worst, it is enjoyable, while the great
episodes are little masterpieces of paranoia, interconnecting storylines, and
complex schemes ranging from elaborate crime operations to personal tragedies
where someone really has to bring in
a sniper. In the comic’s earlier run – which I personally found more engaging –
it is more up close and personal, while later, Golgo becomes more of an implied
presence, barely seen except for a distant glimpse, a photograph, or through the
evidence of having been there (maybe).

Border crossing

Then there is the political
element, which is an entirely fascinating part of the series. As James Bond retreated
from its Cold War roots into stories about extravagant evil masterminds and impractical world
domination plots, Golgo 13 revelled in the basic stuff of the espionage genre. It
is full of spy-vs-spy action, intercepted messages, plants, doubles and hostage
exchanges. Duke Togo, amoral bastard that he is, works for everyone who can
pony up the cash, the Americans, the Brits and the Soviets, as well as numerous
actors involved in the confusing Middle Eastern and African conflicts of the
1970s. These stories have just the right balance of gritty realism and fanciful
espionage, and while they are invariably “remixes” of well-known basic plots,
they conjure an ideal world of shadowy paranoia.

Takao Saito and his collaborators
had a further tendency of shamelessly ripping inspiration straight from the
headlines and reworking it into superspy stories, a technique previously
perfected by Fritz Lang (whose Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler is another personal
favourite). Through his long career, Duke Togo, sniper and travelling salesman,
has been involved in tipping the balance during the Yom Kippur War, covert ops in the Falklands War, intervening
at Tienanmen Square, participating in the assassination of Lady Diana, and
shooting a stack of ballots in Florida to decide the outcome of the 2000 US
elections (vote early, vote often, vote with a bullet!), and much more. Freely
blending fact and fiction is an exhilarating (if dangerous) exercise, turning
reality into its own monstrous mirror image, and Golgo 13 into a very small,
very efficient one-man conspiracy. He is “the
man who was there” everywhere except the grassy knoll, but even that was
only because it took place years before the series kickoff (unsurprisingly, it
still gets brought up in an off-handed manner in one of the adaptations).

But in its own way, Golgo 13 is
not just historically grounded, it is also ageless and timeless. From the
perspective of the modern viewer, it is a refreshingly archaic series that
wears its interests on its sleeve. There is no post-modernist deconstruction or
knowing wink there. Even if some of the comic comes across as plainly absurd competence
porn, Golgo 13 is who he is and he means what he does. From the very first, crude
comic strip (which, of all things, starts with him punching out a prostitute in
a cheap hotel room), the series is earnestly violent and honest about it.
Today, when such interests immediately get denounced as toxic masculinity, it
is like a breath of fresh air, with the subversive appeal of the Donald J.
Trump presidential campaign.

Angela makes a mistake

Almost fifty years have passed
since the series debut, but Golgo 13 is steadfastly, fascinatingly behind the
times, and while you see mobile phones and computers in recent installments, it
is still about a guy who lives a decidedly late 1960s kind of life, has a late 1960s
attitude towards women, and uses late 1960s spy movie tactics. It is also stuck
in a timeless ideal of Europe/America that's obviously and utterly fake, but
completely charming. Like Sergio Leone's westerns, this is about some foreign
guy's romantic ideal of the Old Continent and the good old U.S. of A.,
something he clearly adores but doesn't fully understand. It is an
occidentalist fantasy. In Golgo 13’s Europe, the world is orderly, the
authorities are mostly polite and well respected, most people who aren’t
hoodlums are vaguely upper-middle class, and 1968 never happened. People wear
suits, ties, neat dresses or sometimes smart casual if they don't want to
appear too straight-laced; there is no graffiti and the streets are
meticulously clean. How much of it is due to distance and lack of information,
how much to genre conventions, and how much to just thinking the rest of the world
is like Japan? Hard to tell. It is fairly attractive as a vision of Europe – at
least I wouldn’t mind living there.

Hände hoch!

The
Adaptations

The adventures of Duke Togo have
been adapted multiple times; twice as a live-action film, twice as an animated
movie, and once as a TV series. These are quite varied in quality, and I would
basically recommend two of them, with a third as a big “maybe”.

Golgo
13 (1973): Take a particularly vicious comic book
series featuring a Japanese James Bond knockoff whose author seemed to be on
the opinion that Bond was just too nice and didn’t have enough sex and
violence. Adapt it into a Japanese – Iranian action movie that’s so cultishly
obscure it doesn’t even have its own Wikipedia page, and is only available on
DVD from a purveyor of such fine cult film classics as Symphony For A Massacre, Roadhouse
of the Violent Dolls, or White Rose
Campus: Then Everybody Gets Raped. This is a recipe for cinematic disaster.
All the warning signs of super-cheap exploitation that the likes of Tarantino
dredge up as lost pop culture artefacts and present through an ironic post-modern
view are right there.

But Golgo 13 (no subtitle) is not that
movie. It is a surprisingly high-budget, surprisingly well-acted, and
surprisingly well-made production, and apart from an awkward and badly paced
introduction, it holds up very well among other dark, paranoid 70s spy movies.
Golgo 13 (a.k.a. Duke Togo), pro hitman played by yakuza movie veteran Ken
Takakura, is sent to pre-Revolution Iran to take out Max Boa, the kingpin of a
criminal syndicate involved in the drug trade and girl trafficking. However,
Max Boa is a shadowy underground figure who works unseen, has multiple body
doubles, and is served by some of the Middle East’s best assassins. Multiple
agents on Boa’s trail have disappeared or turned up dead, and only the best
international sniper can take him out.

Iran noir

That’s the base for a
plot that goes from the hotels, alleyways and nightclubs of Teheran’s Old City
through the scorching deserts to Isfahan, then a shootout among the ruins of
Persepolis (and beyond). There are several sinister gunmen (including a guy who
looks like Saddam Hussein), a tough cop who will be trouble for both the protagonist
and his targets, a beautiful spy who will be even more trouble, car chases, a helicopter
battle, and a parrot. It is a clean, classic, larger-than-life comic book
aesthetic that’s thankfully free of post-modernism. Like all good pulp fiction,
it is cheap and meant for entertainment, but it has self-respect and
earnestness. There is no nervous laughter in the background, no knowing winks
at the audience, and however over-the-top it gets, there is no trace of camp.
Some of the scenes in the 1977 movie with Sonny Chiba (Kowloon Assignment) are played for laughs, but Ken Takakura is no
laughing matter. Chiba poses and snarls as a macho tough guy, while Takakura
looks very much like he could kill you with his bare hands. His performance in
this movie shows a cynical, paranoid, taciturn killer who fulfils his contract
no matter what it takes. In one scene, where he is trying to slip his bonds
after being tortured, he looks like a demon trying to break free. The rest of
the all-Iranian cast is completely unconvincing when they try to fill in for
other nationalities, but they take their stock roles and play them with relish.

For something you’d
expect to have homemade or ultra-low-budget special effects, this movie
delivers surprisingly good stunts and choreography, and of course, spectacular
locations (when did the last action movie have a shootout around historical
minarets, or again, the ruins of Persepolis?). It is not quite Bond calibre,
but it is reasonably close, on par with a lot of high-budget 1970s action
movies. It is not quite as violent or
blatantly sexual as the 1983 animation, but the action is more brutal than you
could get away with in a mainstream US title, and it is way sleazier than you
would expect from an Iranian co-production.

And this is the last
part of the movie’s fascination. In the background of the disreputable yet fun plotline
and the amoral hero, there is a lost Iran where the women are confident and
colourfully dressed, the men elegant and fashionable, the cities corrupt and
sinful yet also modern and alive. The Shah’s Iran looks like any up-and-coming
second world country on the verge of making it on the world stage (with better
cars than the place I grew up), with no trace of the bearded imams and morality
enforcers that would eventually destroy it. There are probably not too many
movies where you can see this lost world anymore, and I believe it is worth
remembering.

Apparently, Golgo 13
didn’t do well in theatres at the time of its release, and has no reputation
even as a cult classic. Which is strange, because while no masterpiece, it an
entertaining 70s action movie, Ken Takakura is a legitimate badass, and there
are murders, car chases and shootouts at exotic locations. The DVD is Ł6.50 plus
shipping, and it arrives super-fast. Watch the killcount video, stay
for the whole ride.

The
Professional (1983): full-length animation. After Golgo 13 assassinates
the son and heir of super-rich American industrialist Leonard Dawson, he find
himself the target of the vengeful father, who has the money to buy the
services of the CIA, the FBI, the US Army, and their specially trained
assassins. This is one of the jobs where Golgo 13 has to do his best to survive
and succeed against the increasingly unhinged Dawson, who is willing to
sacrifice everything in his life to get his son's murderer, and that’s one of
the reasons this movie is so compelling. It is a full-blown revenge drama about
obsession and moral corruption, pitting the cool-as-ice professional assassin
against someone who is for all intents and purposes a Japanese patriarch in US
clothing.

Cartoon depravity

The Euro-romanticism is in full
swing, with a western world that's suspiciously how I imagined it when I was a
kid in an Eastern Bloc country. Its upscale elegance and moral decay are as
much a reflection on the 1980s as the earlier Golgo 13 comics are on the Cold
War era, and the coolness of the decade is served up in a concentrated mix in
the movie’s wild imagery. There is even a car with “Laser Turbo” decals printed
on it! The violence is over-the-top and bloody; the sexual depravity is cranked
up several notches – it is one of those cases where the reputation of the
Japanese animation industry is fully justified, and makes the comics look tame
in comparison.

The most important reason The
Professional is excellent, though, is Osamu Dezaki's imaginative animation,
which has high production values, and amazingly bold visuals. He uses odd
perspectives and angles, abstract images, freeze-frames, cutups and even an
experimental early CGI sequence (which is ridiculously dated but has an
abstract retro look now) to their fullest. The style fits the comic book themes
flawlessly, and has a pop-art sensibility I last found in Mario Bava’s
excellent, cheeky Danger: Diabolik.
It is so full of effortless cool that I suspect it has had its own influence on
a bunch of more recent action films; underscored by a soundtrack ranging from J-pop
to jazzy pieces.

Making Real Estate Great Again

Golgo 13
(2008 TV series): 50 episodes without any continuity between them,
adapted from the original comics and slightly updated for the late 2000s. It
doesn’t always work flawlessly, since in adapting original plotlines, it crams
them into 25-minute episodes, losing some of the complex plotting and deeper
characterisation of Saito’s stories. It also has to be said that some stories
become rather less compelling when separated from their original context: Cold
War drama doesn’t age well in a world of new anxieties, and you have to remind
yourself about their origins to properly enjoy them. The episodes are
essentially interchangeable, and if you have seen five or six of them, you have
seen everything the series has to offer.

Still, it is good (if disposable)
fun, ranging from reverse-CSI kind of investigative stories to personal drama
to scenarios where Duke Togo pulls off those apparently impossible jobs. There
is even an episode where he whacks “Ronald Crump, The Real Estate King” right
in his impregnable skyscraper fortress, and another where President Obama
himself tells him to knock it off with a contract “or else” (he doesn’t). As
always, he is a callous motherfucker who won't hesitate about killing friends
and lovers, and often comes across as a colossal asshole, which is about a good
20% of the episodes. The art is the most animeish here (and is a partial departure
from Takao Saito’s original look), but it is functional and decent.

Sunday, 13 November 2016

The
road through the fogbound heath was deserted, and the company travelled alone.
The stolen horses bearing Huberic’s brand were a problem, but a little mud and
strategically placed blankets concealed them as well as it was possible.

By
the afternoon, the grey stone walls of Gont rose in the distance. There was a
small ruined building a bowshot from the gates, and while abandoned, it also
seemed to be interesting to investigate. While the others remained on the road
to watch, Jonlar Zilv, Sufulgor and Einar Sigurdsson investigated the interior,
finding a half-collapsed set of stairs descending into a dank cellar. By the
light of a lantern, they saw the crumbling bas-relief of what looked like a
thin, scorpion-tailed dragon, the rotted remains of pews that had once been
arranged in two rows, and... Jonlar Zilv discovered a patch of earth that had
recently been disturbed. Faded letters around the dragon spelled a single word:
“FERANOLT”.

“The watch is coming to see what you are
doing in there! Come up!” came the warning for above, so Jonlar Zilv dug
quickly, grabbing a bag of short, heavy objects from the uncovered hiding place
just in time to climb back out and face the group of soldiers eyeing them
suspiciously.

“In the name of Lord Gramantik, state your
business! What were you doing in that building?”

“I can explain it, Sir”, Jonlar Zilv
stepped forward, and fished out the small symbol of Irlan the Merciful from the folds of his clothing (which he had
found on the body of a bandit a day before). “I was investigating this place to see if any poor beggars or travellers
were resting here, so that I might distribute a few coins among them, that’s
all.”

The
man in the grey cloak did not like the answer much, but relaxed his grip on his
harpoon. “Gont is an orderly town, and we
do not like beggars, especially on our outskirts. And we keep an eye out for
troublemakers.”

“Excellent! We understand perfectly. We were
looking for a place to rest, and to sell off some merchandise – where may we
find these in town?”

“The
Torn-Off Hand and The Sink are the two places where
strangers are allowed to sleep. One is near the harbour, and the other
overlooks the Chaining Stone, where criminals set to be executed are tied at
low tide. There is also The Lump
near the New Graveyard, but I recommend you to stay away from it, since it is
frequented by a rough crowd.”

Gont

They
paid a few silvers at the gate, and went off to find the Torn-Off Hand. They
found the smoky establishment to the south, more a tavern for sailors and
fishermen than an actual inn. They were greeted by Hagguk the Meaty, a burly half-orc behind the counter, his eyes
flashing with interest as he examined the golden crown worn by Harmand the
Reckless. He was eager to rent them a room on the middle floor, and when they
inquired about a place to sell a few horses, he lit up.

“Sounds like you are looking for Mersin the Lame. He will always give
you a good deal. You’ll find him by the southern walls.”

While
the company settled in the rooms, Jonlar Zilv finally examined the bag he had
found in the ruined building. The bag contained eight brass wands, each tipped
with globes on both ends and decorated with spiral motifs. They tried to
discern their function, but couldn’t find out what they were looking at.

Meanwhile,
Harmand sauntered down to the tavern to order a beer and speak a little more
with Hagguk, who was still impressed by his crown. After some talk, Harmand
turned to the important matters.

“We are looking to sell a few horses; right.
But we are also looking for something more. We may have a much more exclusive
item, if there was a buyer...”

Hagguk
scratched his fat chin, then carefully answered. “It depends. If it is serious…”

“The real deal, a very expensive treasure. It
was recently found in a ruin, and looks to be an ancient druidic vessel.”

“In that case, you may want to deal with Grave-Wight. I can try to contact
him...”

Harmand
slipped some coins on the counter, and Hagguk continued: “Well, well, well. I will try to set up a meeting. Be here after
midnight, and if he is interested, he will make contact on his own terms.”

They
sold the stolen horses for a few coins at a small stable and smithy operated by
Mersin the Lame, and returned to the Torn-Off Hand to wait until the evening.
Both Sufulgor and Einar had the feeling they were being watched; and they had spotted
a few fishermen who looked like they were shadowing them. Some rested, while
some traded gossip with a group of locals complaining of the declining catch, the
sharkmen plaguing the islands, and the increasing pirate activity between Gont
and Baklin. It looked like the seas were getting increasingly dangerous these
days, and most fishermen wouldn’t embark on a longer voyage. Sufulgor was
approached by a suspicious man introducing himself as Serpek the Unblessed, who wanted to have a curse placed on a
business rival: but suspecting an invitation into an ambush, they considered
the deal too risky and didn’t give a positive response.

It
was already late at night and the tavern was becoming empty when a sailor sat
down next to them and indicated Grave-Wight was willing to talk to them. He
beckoned, and they followed him along the dark harbour, and into the barely lit
streets. The man deftly avoided the patrols and passers-by, escorting the
company until they arrived at a set of stairs leading to an old cellar door. He
produced a heavy iron key, and lighting a lantern, they descended into a series
of damp cellars, rats squeaking in the corners and recesses, and brackish water
rippling between the wet planks used for walking. They made multiple turns,
until they came to another door, and were escorted first into a small hall with
multiple doors and decaying seating arrangements, then into a locked side
chamber. Rotting tapestries covered the walls, and simple decorations livened
up the atmosphere. Behind a set of bars in the opposite wall, they could make
out the outline of a man behind a curtain.

“I am Grave-Wight. I heard you have something
to sell me. I will consider your offer.”

They
produced the druidic bowl, and after a short negotiation, Grave-Wight made an
offer for 700 gp. The bowl was exchanged for heavy bags of coins handed through
the curtain.

“And the brass wands?” asked Gadur Yir
greedily. Grave-Wight’s interest was piqued, and they showed him the small
items found in the ruined building, mentioning their possible connection to the
inscription spelling “Feranolt”.

“Feranolt is a familiar name,” mused
Grave-Wight. “It is the name of an old
and prestigious noble family. Like many others, they originated in Kassadia,
and came to the Isle of Erillion during the war against the Wraith Queen
Arxenia 350 years ago. They no longer live near Gont, but they still maintain a
villa on a nearby island called ‘The Dwelling’. I don’t know the purpose of the
wands, and they don’t seem interesting to me.”

Gadur
Yir was also eager to know more: “While
we are at it – are you familiar with the name ‘Vitus Bonifaces’?”

“Should I be? It seems familiar, but I can’t
recall...”

Gadur Yir produced one of the mysterious letters, handing it to the man
behind the curtain. “We all received an
invitation like this. Identical in every detail.”

Grave-Wight
paused and thought a little, then spoke again: “Maybe you would have to speak with Garrodik the Seer. I am unable to
help you with this issue.”

They
said their goodbyes, and left the room, bags of gold in their hands. They found
a new guide, a young lad they recognised as one of the fishermen from the tavern.
The boy led them through a different door than they entered, and they descended
even deeper below Gont, traversing a set of cold passages with recesses filled
with mouldering bones. At last they climbed a long set of stairs again, and the
lad, Gadik escorted them to an octagonal chamber with multiple iron doors, and
light shining through portholes in the peaked ceiling.

“We are here. I will have to return whence I
came. You must knock four times on the third door to be let out.”

They obeyed,
and Gadik locked the door behind him, descending back down the stairs. They
knocked on the iron door as instructed.

“Are you all there?” came a hushed voice
from the other side.

“Yes.”

“Good...” came the answer, and they heard
a weird hissing sound as an inky purplish cloud flooded the room through hidden
holes. Harmand cursed and threw his weight against the door, which broke down
under his assault, revealing two cloaked figures. But it was too late, and one
by one, they fell and lost consciousness.

“...Kurlakum... the bastard’s soul can be
yours...” growled Sufulgor, but to no avail. Everything was dark.

(…)

“How
could we be this idiotic?”

“We
showed him both the brass wands and
the letter.”

“We truly got fucked over, didn’t we.”

(…)

“It is a matter of motivation! Work is easy
when you put your hearts and souls into it. You there! You look like you aren’t
pulling your weight. Care to tell me if you have any problems? Don’t be shy. I’m
listening!”

The
crack of the whip roused them, and they saw a hairy giant of a man towering
above them from a long plank. Fourteen pairs of oars and a set of sails
propelled the dragonship in an unknown direction under a grey sky, the cold
wind and salty foam biting into their faces. They were securely chained to the
benches with long chains, and saw rows of backs before them. The brutal
supervisor was on them, distributing lashes liberally with his long whip. Both he
and his companions were tall, red-haired Northmen clad in furs and boots. There
was no sight of land except smaller rock outcroppings, and Einar sensed they
were going north – far north!

Things
shortly settled into a routine of backbreaking work, and they could get a
better look at their small world. There were around a dozen heavily armed men,
and twice as many chained slaves. Most seemed to be ordinary, if hardened
commoners, but three looked more interesting: a man with braided black hair and
slanted eyes, an older half-orc with a paunch and baggy green pants, and a
sickly dwarf. The dwarf was at the end of his wits, and shortly collapsed among
the chains: he was beaten savagely and left to recover on his own.

“His kind should be thrown into the sea!”
hissed Sufulgor.

“You should be thrown into the sea!”
growled a chained slave next to him, giving him the evil eye.

Jonlar
Zilv had an idea. When the supervisor walked by again, he called to him:

“I am a good musician, Sir, and I would be
happy to sing a heroic song for you if you just unchained me for a little.”

The
brute turned and grinned. “We shall see
about that.” He gave Jonlar multiple lashes, laughing as he could not help
but cry out, “You already sing beautifully.
Why should I stop you?”

Einar
cried: “Know that I, Einar Sigurdsson, am
your kin, and your ancestors are my ancestors! I will gladly fight with you and
join your adventures.”

The
response was more cynical laughter from the fighters, and one answered: “You should tell that to Geranith. Maybe she
will listen to your pleas.”

The
forward cabin opened, and out strode a young woman with the bearings of a queen,
wearing a chain shirt and the furs of her fellow barbarians.

A
roar came from a dozen mouths: “All hail Princess Geranith, Daughter of Queen
Brith and bride to Sogmund the Red!”

The
supervisor bellowed: “Bow down, you dogs,
bow before your future queen, and pray that you shall not be the ones who will
be sacrificed on her wedding!”

Geranith
cast an icy look on the deck, surveying the slaves. Then, paying no heed to anyone,
turned and returned to the cabin as the supervisor whipped those who did not
bend low enough.

Night
was falling and the slaves received their bowls of food and watered beer while
the warriors drank heartily. While they were allowed to rest, Harmand managed
to break his chains, but sat still until he could make a good move. The
opportunity came soon enough as Einar called out, again.

“Let me out of my chains, Geranith! You need
a real man, a true Northerner! My family comes from the icy lands where men are
men, not like your dogs! Come out!”

The
Northmens’ interest was piqued by the audacity, and they all watched with
interest as the furious Princess Geranith emerged from her cabin, her eyes
filled with plain hatred.

“Untie him”, she barked, and threw her
sword into the air. “May your ancestors
be merciful to your shade, for I shall now kill you!”

Einar
and Geranith squared off on the central plank off the ship, watched eagerly by
both slaves and Northmen. The exchange was unequal, showing her to be a far superior
fighter. Einar could not even close with her while she rapidly inflicted three light
wounds.

“This was just the warmup”, she spat. “Prepare for death!”

Sufulgor
stood up on his bench, casting a hold
person spell on the princess. She froze where she stood with a snarl on her
face, and before the shocked men could react, Einar was at her throat with a
dagger.

“Drop your weapons or she dies!” he
cried.

Harmand
the Reckless leaped upon the deck, blocking the Northmen’s way.

“You shall not get through me! Surrender!”

The hardened
killers growled and cursed, but did not dare to act. They threw their weapons
on the deck while Einar tied Geranith to the mast.

“I like it much better this way, darling”
he laughed. Gernaith’s eyes gave the only answer, and Einar was glad she couldn’t
move.

They
retrieved the ring of keys carried by the supervisor, and freed the slaves one
by one, including Barzig the Nomad
(the man with the braided black hair), Ragout
(the old half-orc), and the barely alive Killorn
Stonefist (the sickly dwarf). The weapons of the Northmen were distributed
among the slaves, while the erstwhile captors became captives. Geranith watched
in icy silence. Einar finally hung the keys around his own neck.

“Long live Einar the Liberator! Down with the
northern dogs!”, exclaimed Brusuf the Servant, and he was joined by a
chorus of the grateful oarsmen. Snatching up the whip, Gadur Yir tested it on a
few of the northerners.

Now
that they have finished their takeover, it became apparent three men were missing.
One was the barrel-chested supervisor, and two more of his followers. A search
around the dragonship didn’t reveal their hiding place, or whether they were on
the ship at all anymore. The cabin was a small place stacked with supplies and
a few personal effects. Geranith didn’t have her dowry with her, only a small locked
chest. Jonlar Zilv walked to the tied-up princess and started to speak:

“Let me attempt to explain this, Princess...”

“Now you can see how a northern man deals with
issues!” gloated Einar.

“...and this is how the civilised man does
the same...”, smirked the minstrel, singing “I hope I will not fall in love with you” (charm person) to the captive.

Einar
exclaimed his intentions to the crew, a band of 40 men: “It is I, your new captain speaking! We have captured this ship, and
regained our freedom. If you obey me, you shall have that and more – much more.
As for the princess, she is my prisoner, and I swear by all my ancestors that she
is under my protection, and no harm should come to her.”

The
chest in the cabin was a small cache with 300 silver coins, 700 electrum, five
gemstones and a valuable pitcher decorated with Northman motifs. There was also
a message in the form of a rune-stick. The brief message, addressed to Sogmund
the Red, was simple: by request of “Lord Feranolt”, the prisoners named Gadur
Yir, Jonlar Zilv, Harmand the Reckless, and Einar Sigurdsson should be among
the sacrifices on Princess Geranith’s wedding. (“Nobody even thought of me?!” complained Sufulgor) The message also
noted that someone named Filodont would make a visit to the North, and should
be accommodated.

“Feranolt!” snapped Jonlar Zilv. “We should have known! Grave-Wight must be no
other than this Lord Feranolt!”

“Seems we have unfinished business with
Grave-Wight.”

“And that kid.”

“And half the town.”

“I will disembowel all the fuckers in Gont”,
swore Einar.

They
contemplated plans of looting the Dwelling mentioned by Grave-Wight, to find
some leverage on Lord Feranolt. As for the princess, opinions were divided.
Some advocated selling her into slavery, while Einar said she should simply be
put ashore with some of her men at the right spot – a good deed is oft
rewarded. Jonlar Zilv was in agreement, noting that their company was small
fish among the Northmen thanes, and should not arouse their ire. Harmand and
Gadur Yir were strongly opposed – if freed, the furious Geranith would do all
in her power to hunt them down for her humiliation, and they should kill her while
they had the chance. Sufulgor darkly noted that his dark master, Kurlakum of
the Seven Misfortunes would have to have his due for their triumph, and
Geranith’s blood should serve as a worthy sacrifice. In the end, Einar offered
to relinquish his share of the treasure in exchange for Geranith’s freedom, but
not his men – they would have to bargain with the rest of the group.

There
was a shrill shriek from outside, and they rushed to the deck to find Ragout
the half-orc next to the mast, trying to have his way with the captive
princess. Einar grabbed him, and with a cry and a heave, threw the hapless
half-orc into the dark waves. Gadur Yir tried to throw the wretch a rope, but
when he pulled it back, it was empty: the seas had swallowed the miscreant. Now
that Einar had dealt with the challenge to his authority, the freed men were completely
under his command. The company swore an oath on the division of spoils before
the eyes of Geranith, and they retired to rest before their new ventures.

(Session
date 31 October 2016).

***

Notable quotes:

Sufulgor:
“I will use my healing powers to cure
Gadur Yir. I lay my hands on him and channel those energies.”

GM: “...all right. Roll the dice.”

Sufulgor:
“2 Hp!”

GM: “You cause 2 points of damage.”

Gadur
Yir: “Ow!”

Sufulgor:
“…”

Jonlar
Zilv’s player: “I hope you do remember you are the cleric of a
Chaotic Evil deity, and you cause wounds
instead of healing them?”

Jonlar
Zilv: “If I sold you lot out to Lord
Gramantik, I bet my alignment would shift towards good.”

***

Referee’s notes: Multiple reversals
of fortune, an escape from dire circumstances brought about by carelessness,
and a conclusion leading to new adventures – all in a good afternoon’s work. In
the first episode, the players struck out on their own to find something
outside their expected frame of action; in the second, they entered mapped
territory but got much more than they’d bargained for almost immediately once
they’d settled into basic routines – and were off the maps once again.
Sometimes, you are careless and get lucky. At other times, you hit an iceberg
(and the game becomes really interesting once
you do that).

This
session also highlights an interesting feature of sandbox games: the way
existing sandbox elements can indirectly influence plot development outside
their regular scope. Preparation before the session was focused on Gont and its
environment (peppered with a few
leads, some linked to the campaign’s central mysteries, some not), and almost none of
that was featured in our game. And yet, things were still there in a sense, suggesting what might happen in the undetailed spaces the company entered, and
where the action might go. Like a black hole, they were invisible but still
affecting things with their field of gravity. Setting logic, combined with
player decisions and a few off-the-cuff ideas gave a basic picture that was
more than ‘here there be lions’. And as for Terra Incognita: a few established
ideas (the Confederacy’s independent, warring Northman kingdoms; their ancestor
worship and barbarian ways of life; seas and longships) provided a foundation
to build on.